If Wishes Were Horses
by Les Mots de Meaux
Summary: Joséphine wished that this seemingly happy fairytale would never end, but deep inside, she knew that all good things must. Part of my "Chance" story arc. Please read the author's note.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Here we go! This is the second installment in my series "Chance". This one does not follow in sequence after Childhood, however. I know, I am bad for posting this one up before I finished Childhood. Just had to start this one – it wouldn't leave me alone! Guess who it's about! Will be multi-chaptered.

A/N: Please remember to participate in the vote on my profile. It would help me a lot if you voice your opinion in this matter.

A/N: Edited due to a minor mistake on my part regarding dates.

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables nor any of the characters from the Brick mentioned in this fanfiction. All I own is the arrangement of words on this page.

Joséphine Leblanc was not beautiful. She was not fair of face, nor was she fair of heart. Her Roma blood did nothing for her beauty or soul. The outside matched the inside, one might say of her. One might also say that underneath her cold exterior, there was still a cold interior.

However, she did have a man, a man that compensated and totally, utterly made up for all of her downfalls and weaknesses.

His name was Philippe. Philippe was a wonderful name, she thought. It meant "friend to horses". She supposed that if they did have horses, he would be lovely with them. Together, they could ride across the country, across the world's hilly and mountainous lands…

But she knew that would never happen. That was just a romantic notion, the wish of a young girl trapped in a woman's body.

She was not too old, really. She was only seventeen. She had married Philippe a year ago, under white flowers and in a beautiful dress. It had been her mother's dress, once, when times were better and everyone could afford a horse.

Times were different, though, now. Joséphine could feel it inside of her, feel the terror draw ever nearer. It crept into her bones, into her mind, into her very dreams, turning once beautiful reveries into horrendous nightmares. It grew inside of her, this terror, just like the being growing inside of her body.

The little being, the thing that would soon be born of herself and Philippe. She would not dare to consider names at the present; she did not know much of the world, but even Joséphine knew that to be bad luck of the most heinous type. She, after all, believed in these such superstitions.

After all, it was her trade to believe in the supernatural and peasant's false notions. She based her income off of the whims of fine bourgeois and the desperate hopes of gamins.

She was a fortune teller.

Each day, she would walk down to the market, a little basket on the crook of her elbow and a stool in the other arm. She would find a place along the river, where pretty bourgeoisies often drew their lovers too. That sort of person would pay the most to hear a fortune teller's follies.

Of course, Joséphine employed the best of her arts in this occupation. She darkened the skin around her eyes and moved her hair to fall around her shoulders. She had made a woolen shawl from an outgrown dress, and this she wrapped around herself, huddling deep into it. She did not speak too much, only to accept payment and to reveal the fortunes of her clients.

That was how she had met Philippe. He was one of her clients, one of the gamin type. He had not always been that way, he had told her. His father had been an honest businessman, a craftsman. His mother, though, had gambled away much of their savings on drink and worthless trinkets. He had also had three little siblings, two brothers and a sister. His older sister had already been blissfully married away to a wonderful husband.

It had almost been the same with Joséphine. Her father had deserted her mother with five children, all different ages from newborn to married with newborns of their own. Finally, she had had enough of whining children and high expectations she knew she could not meet. Her only solution was to marry.

Of course, her looks would not garner the fine suitors her mother dreamed of her getting. No, she would rather have to settle for an old bachelor or one of the like.

Joséphine was not the smartest, but she did know the dangers of such an arrangement. Instead, she struck a deal with her mother: let her work a bit, and gather some funds for a dowry. Then, even she might be able to find a reasonable suitor.

However, as she quickly learned, life is not a fairy tale. A prince never came to sweep her off of her feet and into his arms and to his spacious, comfortable castle.

Instead, Philippe came. He was handsome, at least to her. His skin was lighter than hers, and his hair was fair. His eyes were blue, a wonderful color that seemed to see into her soul; he felt as she did on almost every matter. His clothes were somewhat new; they had been darned in only a few places. His waistcoat was been navy that day, his cravat had been white, his coat (missing a button) had been a very light blue, and his breeches had been black. Not the most fashionable, but it had worked for him. He had come to learn his destiny, but she had seen her own in those sapphire eyes of his. The year had been 1778. She had been fifteen; he had been sixteen.

Then, 1779 came. It had brought a small apartment for the new family, and a wedding ceremony in summertime. Life seemed to pick up for Joséphine; even the terror of revolution could not bring down her spirits. She continued to tell fortunes, but now she did it purely for the income. She supposed before she had been searching for her own fate before. Now, though, her fate spent his mornings and evenings with her, and his days at work.

1780 came quickly, with news of a revolution on the brink and blood beginning to boil.

For Joséphine and Philippe, 1780 brought something else entirely. A baby, still yet unborn, but soon to come to the world, would soon arrive.

If wishes were horses…she would like a lot of horses, indeed. Horses for her Philippe, horses for her child. Horses for herself. Wishing got one nowhere, she knew, unless one wished then acted upon their wish.

All she wished was for this fairytale to never end, whatever sort of fairytale it was.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Updates will become less and less frequent due to real life circumstances.

A/N: Please remember to vote on my poll on my profile page!

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way, shape, or form or do I own any of the characters mentioned in this fanfiction. I own only the arrangement of words upon this page and various editions of the Brick.

One day, trouble began to brew like a storm from the sea.

The sky had been clear, and the sun had been bright and shining. The air had been warm and comfortable, with just a slight breeze to disturb the trees' leaves.

Then, the sky had grown dark, and the sun had been blotted out by dark rain clouds, coming in from the west. The air grew humid and dank, and the breeze turned into fierce, biting winds.

The marketplace, the river, the bridge that had once been full of people, grew abruptly empty. Animals and people alike scurried for the secure indoors of inns and taverns.

Joséphine picked up her cards and wrapped her shawl tighter around her body. She rushed for the little flat she and Philippe shared, hoping to beat the rain.

She did not succeed.

It came when she was but thirty steps from the flat, from safety. It came without a warning, instantly breaking upon her, almost knocking her to the ground. The rain beat down upon her, soaking her hair and clothes upon immediate impact. She ran as fast as she could while still preserving some semblance of modesty, running to the warmth and the safety of their flat.

She was surprised, though, that he was home. Philippe worked long hours, from the early morning to after sunset. It was but early afternoon, and he should have therefore been at work.

Instead, there he was. He was sitting on one of their two chairs by the table, his legs stretched out far in front of him. She sometimes forgot his height, that is, until she really got a good look at him again. He was very tall, taller than she was, at least. His hat was off and on the table in front of him, and his coat lay across the back of his chair. His arms were crossed across his chest, and he looked slightly tired, slightly worn.

Joséphine removed her shawl and set her basket on the table, turning to face Philippe. He made no movement, simply staring into the space in front of him, his eyes somewhat unfocused.

"Is everything fine?" she asked of him, regarding him with caring eyes. "You're home rather early."

"I suppose so," he responded, voice barely above a whisper. "Is it…really that early?"

"Yes, Philippe, it is," she said. "It's just barely three. And you don't usually get home until seven or eight!" she reminded him. "Are you sick, perhaps?" She raised a hand to rest against his forehead. "Not a fever…"

"No, not a fever," he agreed, turning his head away from her hand. "Never anything so simple."

"A fever is not 'simple'!" she protested. "It could mean so many things…"

"Yes," he said. "But all of those things you speak of result in one of two ways: death or many methods and hours of medicine."

Joséphine nodded, reaching forward to take his face into her hands. "Now, Philippe, tell me what's wrong. Was it…something at work, perhaps?" She looked at him, watching for any signs of distress or discomfort that could mean an illness. He did, after all, have a point. Illnesses were rather clean-cut, so to speak. You always knew where you were with one. Like he had said, illnesses always ended in one of two ways. Whatever was wrong with him, Joséphine found herself wishing that it was in fact some sort of sickness. At least that way she would know where she (and he) stood in matters.

"Something at work…" he repeated. "Well, it was caused by that…"

"What?" she asked. Finally, he was going to tell her. Finally, they were approaching a clear answer. "What was caused by…work?"

"I haven't been getting paid much, you know," he said. And she did know. Neither one of them brought in a tremendous amount of money, after all. Of course, they were better off than some. But a part of Joséphine still wished for horses.

"Does whatever's wrong with you have something to do with that? How much you've earned?" she asked, pushing forward for an answer, a response that made something resembling sense.

"Yes, it does," he murmured. "Oh, 'séphine!" He let out a sob, tearing himself away from her hands.

"What is it, what is it?" she asked, frantically reaching for his shoulders. "Please, Philippe, you must tell me! Maybe…we can work this out together…"

"No," he said solemnly, finally stopping his struggling. "Not with you, not with you with our child."

"Does this have to do with our baby?" she asked. "Please, please, please!" she said. "Answer me, please!"

"It has everything to do with our baby, 'séphine. Everything," he said, face setting into serious lines, eyes finally focusing upon hers. For once, the blue was dull. "You know that we have very little money. How could we even expect to be able to raise a _child_? Do you even know…do you even know what that'll cost?" His voice grew hysterical once more.

"I do know, Philippe," Joséphine murmured, running a comforting hand along his arm. "I know what you mean, I know what it will cost. But, Philippe, this is our child. We'll make it through, if only for the baby's sake."

"Oh, don't be a martyr," Philippe said. "This isn't the Romantic world all those writers would have us believe. Angels do not come down from the heavens to help us poor mortals. We're alone, 'séphine. And we're about to have a baby." He reached forward to run a hand along her swollen stomach. "This baby…we can't…"

"Yes, we _can_," she said firmly. "We'll do it. So, sure, we might have to give up some things. I get that. I think you do too. Sacrifices must be made, after all." As much as it pained her to admit it, she had to say it. "This isn't a fairytale, and I know that, Philippe. Our child will too."

"Will it? Will it? Or will it always want more, just as you know we both did when we were kids?" he asked. "That's why…"

"Why, what?" Joséphine asked.

"I did it."

"Did what?" she asked. "What, oh Philippe, what have you done?" She examined his face with her eyes, still searching for the hope that these were just the ravings of a fever, perhaps hidden by the cool breeze from the window.

"I have committed a sin."

"Is it really that bad, Philippe?" Joséphine asked, running a hand through his hair in a manner of comfort.

"Yes, yes," he replied. "A sin. One of the seven."

"The seven? Oh, Philippe!" she murmured. "Which, which?" Oh, how she hoped he had not…

"Greed."

"How?" she asked, with an almost sigh of relief. At least, then, he was still true to her and their child…But such a sin…

"Theft."

"Of what? When?"

"Nothing so trivial. No one knows but you."

"But, you must confess!" Even if he would not tell her the whole story. "The church…"

"No!" he exclaimed. "They would send me away, leaving just you and our child…I cannot do that."

She would later realize that there were certain faults to the system of justice. A sort of domino effect forms, started with a crime, and causing so many more. A domino effect, in which each piece is a deed. And as each piece falls, a piece of hope dies with it.

As does a wish.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I really must apologize for how late this update is. But at least it's here now, right? Anyway, please vote in the poll on my profile regarding this fanfiction and the accompanying fanfiction "Childhood". **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way, shape, or form, nor do I own any recognizable characters from said novel. I own only the arrangement of the words on this page and my own characters.**

"I haven't told anyone, you know," Joséphine murmured to Philippe one day, a hot and humid Monday. It had been a week since he had told her. A week had past since the storm had begun, threatening everything they held close. A week since a fever had turned into so much more, since the love of her life had confessed to her. A week. And everything had changed, in such small ways.

Philippe seemed perpetually on edge, always looking over his shoulder. It was as if he feared that someone would read his mind and divulge the truth. Of course, both Joséphine and Philippe knew that that was impossible. But the feeling of paranoia, of a strong need for vigilance that both of them shared, would never seem to fade from their minds.

"That's good," Philippe answered, noncommittally and altogether uninterestedly. He leaned down to search for a clean shirt in his dresser drawers. He pulled one out, gazing at it as if it held all of the secrets of the world. With a final shrug, he tugged it on, buttoning it down the center. He straightened out the cuffs, and then moved to put on his waistcoat. No, they were not rich, but they were not quite poor either. Philippe owned two waistcoats, one for work and day-to-day activities. The other, he used for church.

Which they had attended the day previous, despite Joséphine's concerns for her husband's well-being and Philippe's concerns for being in the presence of one who could order his confession. He had told no one but his wife of his misdeed, and he had not even given her the full story.

She knew to give him time. Philippe was one of those men, she knew, that would eventually come forth and explain it all to her, if only she gave him space and time. And so she was, simply going about her business and preparing for the baby that she would soon give birth to. Joséphine had clothes to make and many things to do. Things that could fill her days in the anxious wait for the new child. Things that could fill her days and drive her mind away from Philippe's apparent thievery.

"Well," she said, once he had put on his waistcoat. He turned to her expectantly, waiting for her to continue. "I don't think I can go to work today, Philippe."

Joséphine had known that the day would come when the weight became too much for her to bear to move, to bear to stand. The baby was growing larger, and all the weight seemed to fall on her feet. Her head was beginning to hurt as well, and her back was aching almost every day, and every hour. More and more she was feeling as if she would like nothing better than just to lie down.

She was happy, though, as well. Joséphine knew that this meant the baby would soon come. As soon as she had realized that she was pregnant, she talked about it almost every day that she met with her friends. They all worked on the streets like she did, and so they could meet during slow hours and hold discussions.

"Is this supposed to happen?" Philippe asked, looking at her curiously. "I'm…somewhat unused to all of this. What did…oh, what was her name?"

"Charlotte Dupuy," Joséphine supplied, leaning back into her chair by the window. "Her husband is Nicolas, remember? The fruit merchant who works by the bridge." Charlotte was her closest friend, which really helped now that she was pregnant. Charlotte had two children, a daughter named Marie-Anne and a son named Christophe, with Nicolas. Marie-Anne was the eldest and soon to be married off, and Christophe was ten and already learning the family business.

Having gone through two perfect pregnancies, Charlotte was the ideal consultant for all of Joséphine's worries and questions.

"Right…What did she have to say about this?" Philippe asked. "Is this normal?"

"It is," she confirmed. "Charlotte told me that when the baby was soon to come, only about two or so months away, that I should start feeling this way, with my back aching and all."

"Oh, alright, then…So, how many weeks do you think it's been, then?" Philippe asked, grabbing his greatcoat from the coat stand and sliding it on. "Since we found out about the baby, I mean."

She thought for a moment, thinking back to that fateful day in December, when she had suddenly thrown up her breakfast without a warning. Her stomach had felt terrible, but she had a feeling that this was more than a typical illness like the flu. She had talked with Charlotte, who had identified this with her own experiences: Joséphine was pregnant.

"Perhaps…well, it's been about seven months, maybe. Both of Charlotte's children came within nine or ten months, so I've only got a couple more to go," she said.

"_We've_ only got a couple more to go," Philippe insisted, buttoning up his greatcoat. He grabbed his hat and put it on, kissing Joséphine on the forehead before walking to the door. "So long, until…tonight," he said, locking the door behind himself.

Joséphine smiled to herself. Perhaps…if they kept Philippe's secret long enough, at least until the baby was born, then everything would be alright. Everything would work itself out in the end.

Fear had been replaced with anxiety. She had so many things to worry about, not just the "incident", as she liked to refer to Philippe's thievery as. She had to get everything in order for the baby.

But first she had to manage to get up from her chair, from the warm morning sun.

With a sigh, she moved her hand to rest against the arm of the chair, using this as leverage to force herself up. Oh, how much her back hurt…But she knew that she could not stay in her chair all day, even if she did not feel well enough to work. She at least could fix dinner for herself and Philippe. That should not be too bad.

With a small moan, she made her way to the little kitchen, and then leaned against the counter. She bent to look for some bread, and then straightened back up.

Nine or ten months could not come soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Here it is, Chapter 4. My apologies for the long wait.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way, shape or form, nor do I own any characters recognizable from that novel. I only own the arrangement of the words upon this page and my ideas. **

Nine or ten months came sooner than Joséphine could ever have imagined.

June was hotter than she could ever have anticipated. She was very grateful, for once, that she had been forbidden (by both Charlotte and Philippe) to rise from her bed and go outside. She was now eight months into the pregnancy, and nine months was just around the corner.

Finally.

It was hard for her to have to stay in bed all day, with almost nothing to keep her attention. Philippe had found her a few novels at the market one day, and he had given these to her for her birthday on the tenth of June. These, at least, could keep her company.

Luckily, on the twenty-fifth of June, Charlotte Dupuy decided to visit Joséphine. Somehow, she had managed to escape the hustle-and-bustle of the fruit stand where she and her husband worked. This was fortunate for Joséphine, because she could finally catch up on all that she missed.

She had learned early on in her ordered bed rest that husbands were very unreliable when it came to telling news that did not have anything to do with politics or the economy.

Charlotte, though, knew everything that Joséphine wanted to know.

"So," Charlotte said, leaning over from her chair beside Joséphine's bed. "I heard just yesterday that Laure Gautier…You know her, right?"

"I think so. She's the one with that rich husband, the lord…Daniel, right, from England?" Joséphine asked, intrigued.

"Yes, that's the one. Anyway, guess what I heard?" Charlotte did not pause to let her friend even try to guess. "Monsieur Gautier's moving back to his family estate in England, and she's going too!" Charlotte got a dreamy look in her eye as she contemplated Laure Gautier's fate. "Imagine, all the pretty dresses…and the fine Englishmen!"

"Oh, Lottie!" Joséphine exclaimed. "What about Nicolas?"

Charlotte nodded. "Yes, dearest Nicolas. I wouldn't leave him for a moment!" She sighed. "So, that's what's going on with Laure. Oh, and did you hear about Lydie de Juste?"

"Of course not," Joséphine said sarcastically, a wry smile upon her face. "Not as if I can just get on out of bed!"

"No, you can't," Charlotte said sternly. "That's why I'm here. I'm here to give you the news…_and_ to make sure that you obey orders."

"I know, I know!" Joséphine said. "So, tell me about this Lydie de Juste…"

And so it went on for at least an hour, Charlotte telling Joséphine about all that she was missing in the world outside, under the burning hot sun. Of course, after a while, Charlotte had to return to work and leave Joséphine behind to rest in bed.

"I've got to go now, 'séphine," Charlotte said. "But I'll try and get back before the beginning of July. July…will be…nine months, won't it?"

"I think so," said Joséphine. "And I still can't get up?"

"No, you can not! You can't get up until probably at least two weeks after you give birth to your lovely son or daughter," Charlotte said, a smile upon her face. "Oh, one more thing!"

"What is it, now, Lottie?" Joséphine asked. "More gossip?" She let out a laugh. "I'm sure the baby's quite tired of all of our chatter…I'm sure he or she could care less about England and all of that!"

"Oh, but this is quite real! My daughter, oh, you know, Marie-Anne…she's getting married in August!" Charlotte exclaimed.

"Really? That's great!" Joséphine said. "Who's the man?"

"Oh, he's a merchant named Xavier Depaul. He sells those really good apples in the springtime, down in the market. And he's twenty-two, so he's not too much older than my Marie-Anne. She's sixteen now." Charlotte smiled. "Xavier even already has a little flat, near here in fact. So she can just move in with him after the wedding."

"That's wonderful, absolutely wonderful!" Joséphine exclaimed. She had never realized how close she and Charlotte's daughter were in age. Perhaps they could talk sometime…

"Yes, it just is. And Christophe's coming right along, too," Charlotte said. "He came up with a new way to organize everything, which is really just great."

"Wonderful," Joséphine remarked.

"Exactly!" Charlotte stood, moving the chair back to its resting spot near the wall. "Well, I've really got to get on back. I told Nicolas that I would be gone for about two hours, visiting you…and it's almost three already!" She grabbed her coat from the coat rack and slid it on, buttoning it up even though it was very hot outside. "Remember, I'll be back soon. And you make sure to let Philippe know if he needs to come get me, or if the baby feels likes it's starting to come. You'll know when that is."

"Fine, fine," Joséphine said. "Well, Philippe will be back at sundown, so not too much longer now. Thank you so much for coming by…I have my books and all, but it's not the same."

"I know what you mean. I still had my mother when I gave birth to Marie-Anne sixteen years ago…I was…seventeen, then. So, the same age you are now, right?"

"Yes," Joséphine said. "I turned seventeen on the tenth."

"You're so young," Charlotte remarked. She sighed a little, regarding Joséphine with kind, brown eyes. "But you'll pull through, just like me. We're strong, not like those simpering bourgeoisie girls."

"Not like Laure Gautier!" Joséphine exclaimed with a laugh. "Or that Lydie de Juste you were telling me about."

"No, not at all." Charlotte fixed her hair quickly in the little mirror that hung above the dresser. "Now, you just stay there and be good. Read those books that you told me Philippe got you. And he'll be back soon, so don't despair." Charlotte chuckled, turning back to her friend. "He'll be back before you know it. Try and get some sleep, too. You'll need it for when the baby comes."

Both women laughed, Charlotte having told Joséphine about the many sleepless nights she spent with her wailing children. And with that, it was time for Charlotte to leave.

Yes, there were small misfortunes. But Joséphine felt that the baby would bring countless instances of luck with it.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you to all of my reviewers and readers! Updates will be less frequent, especially next week and a good bit of July. I will not be updating for a while coming soon...**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the recognizable characters from that novel. I only own my idea and the arrangement of the words upon this page.**

Philippe did not return at sundown.

Philippe did not return at nine o'clock that night.

Philippe did not return the next morning.

Philippe did not return.

Joséphine could not imagine where he could be. He always came home at sundown, except for that fateful day when he had told her…

She must not think of that. No, she must be strong, and she must think logically and clearly.

Where could Philippe be?

Surely not at a friend's house. He would have no reason not to return to her. They did not live far from where he worked, after all. It was not a long walk from there to their flat, even if he had gotten injured on his job.

Oh, how she hoped it was nothing that serious! If he had gotten injured…She did not make nearly enough money doing her fortune telling by the river. And if he had gotten himself injured, then, oh, how would they pay for the flat? Or the baby to come?

These questions swam through Joséphine's already-clouded mind, vying for importance amongst the things she would rather think of. Oh, to be young, to be ten years old again, when running through flowered fields was perfectly acceptable. When she had dreamed of a wedding all in white. When life was perfect, despite all of her nagging worries and responsibilities.

When wishes could have been horses. Or, at least, when such a statement was more than a sentiment. For that was all it really was, in truth.

She sat up in bed, running a hand along her swollen stomach. There was only one month left until nine months. Nine months. That was how long Charlotte had predicted that she would carry the baby inside of her stomach. Nine months.

But that will be then, and this is now. Philippe was still missing. Or, at least, he was simply not home yet.

Joséphine moved to stand, letting out a groan. She had barely stood since Charlotte had assigned her bed rest, save to relieve herself and other small things. Never had she just stood, stood to walk from the room and sit in the little kitchen.

Her bones simply ached as she moved. She walked slowly, grasping onto the wall for added support. Finally, she reached the kitchen. Joséphine sunk down into one of the chairs in front of the table, sighing as she did. Yes, nine months could not come soon enough.

But where was Philippe?

She had no way to reach him. She could not simply get up and hail a fiacre or anything, especially in her condition. Charlotte was gone, having left during the afternoon.

Finally, though, she heard a banging at the door. Joséphine stood, shakily, and walked the little ways to go answer the door.

But it was not Philippe.

It was two police officers. One was very tall and skinny, as if someone had stretched him out; his hair was a shining blond and his eyes were light blue. The other was skinny as well, but considerably shorter, with dark brown hair and green eyes.

"Are you Madame Javert?" the tall, blond policeman asked of her.

"Uh, yes, yes, monsieur. My name is Joséphine Javert, and Philippe is my husband," she blurted out, hand against the door. A sudden, terrible thought struck her. "Do you have news of him?" she asked nervously.

"So you are aware that he did not return home," the short officer confirmed.

"Yes, of course, monsieur. He was supposed to return home last night, soon after sundown," Joséphine said. "Is he ill?" she asked.

"No, madame," the tall officer replied. "He is in good health, at least in body. However, he has been arrested."

"Arrested?" Joséphine asked. Oh, no…Had someone found out about what Philippe had done? "What…what was he arrested for?" she struggled to ask.

"Philippe Javert was arrested last night at eight in the evening for theft of a single loaf of bread and thirty francs. The loaf of bread was stolen from the front window of a bakery and the thirty francs were stolen from a gentleman's purse," the blond, tall officer said, reading off of a slip of paper. "He was brought to the Palais du Justice at eight thirty in the evening following arrest by an officer by the name of Leveque." He paused, pocketing the little slip of paper. "And I am Morel, and this is Renard."

Joséphine could not speak. Philippe…stole? Again? He had not even told her what he had stolen in the first place, but a whole loaf of bread and thirty francs? Thirty francs…what they could do with thirty francs! And a whole loaf of bread! But…he had _stolen_ these items. Justice did not take note of hunger. Justice took notice only of the law.

"Messieurs," she began, drawing in a deep breath. "Is it possible for me to see him?"

"Yes, madame," Renard replied. "That is why we are here. You are allowed time with him until further decisions are made."

"Decisions?" she asked. "What do…what do you mean by that?"

"Well, madame, he did commit a crime," Morel said. "He may face prison."

Joséphine could do nothing but stare at him. Prison? That would mean he would miss the birth of their child…oh, and so much more! How would she pay to take care of their baby?

Setting her face into a firm expression, she moved as fast as she could from the doorway to grab her shawl. She returned, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"Messieurs," she said resolutely. "Take me to my husband, if you may."


	6. Chapter 6read author's note

**A/N: Here it comes, the second half, per say, of this fanfiction…Unfortuantly, I will probably be unable to update for a VERY long time, due to a real life situation. Please accept my most sincere apologies for this, but real life must come first. Very sorry. Also, I will be unable to reply to PMs and reviews for a while as well; again, my apologies.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way, shape or form. I only own the arrangement of the words upon this page and my ideas. **

The ride in the fiacre to the Palais du Justice was longer than it should have been. Or, at least it seemed that way to Joséphine. Such as one must feel if they are riding to their execution, the ride seemed both far too long and not nearly far enough.

Fate can not be restrained or held back. It must occur, without fail and without delay.

Joséphine sat opposite Renard and Morel in the fiacre. With every bump and shake of the fiacre, she felt a distinct fear for the safety of her yet unborn child. She was jostled back and forth upon the leather seat. In a vain attempt to distract herself from her worries, she glanced outside the window to her left.

The streets and buildings seemed to fly past her as the fiacre moved on. She saw many houses and shops that she recognized, but even more so that she did not. She had never traveled far from the flat she and Philippe shared once they had gotten married.

Philippe.

Oh, how she hoped that he was unharmed.

Finally, after what seemed like over an hour (but was really more like half an hour), they arrived at the Palais du Justice. Morel and Renard stepped out first, Renard leaning back to offer his hand to help her out of the fiacre. Morel stopped for a moment to converse with the driver, eventually handing him a few coins. The three walked up to the large building, Joséphine filing in after the two officers.

Immediately upon entering, Morel walked off to talk with one of the secretaries, while Renard stayed with Joséphine. She could just barely hear Morel's discussion with the young man.

"Yes, I …to visit…Javert…wife...here" she could just pick out above the noise of the room. The secretary nodded, a mute expression upon his face.

"He is…downstairs…number 3…ask Blanchard…" the secretary responded, turning back to his stack of paperwork. Morel nodded and walked back to where Joséphine and Renard stood.

"We're clear to go," he said. "They put him downstairs, cell number 3." With that, he walked over to a door to their left. He opened it, and began walking swiftly down the stairs. Joséphine followed him, with Renard bringing up the rear.

With each step, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. What would she see when she reached cell number 3? If Philippe, her love, was hurt…

She stepped down onto the floor, following Morel past a few cabinets, full of files of criminals. The guards in the basement looked up at her as she passed by, but they did not spare her more of a glance than that. Renard nodded to a few as way of greetings as he walked on.

Morel stopped in front of a particular desk. Its occupant was a young, bulky man with dark black hair and piercing brown eyes. His skin was pale, as if he spent very little time outdoors.

"Blanchard, Benoit upstairs told me to ask you about letting us visit the prisoner in cell 3," Morel said. "He said you had the keys."

"Yes, I do," Blanchard replied, setting down a half-eaten sandwich. He examined a piece of paper on his desk. "There are two prisoners in cell 3 right now. There's Michel Aucoin, Jean-Joseph Gaudet and Philippe Javert. One of those is who you want to see?" he asked. He glanced behind Morel to Renard and Joséphine, who clutched her shawl a little firmer around herself.

"We would like to see Philippe Javert," Morel said.

"Fine, I'll get the key. But who's the lady?" Blanchard asked, standing up.

"Oh, she's the wife of Philippe Javert. He is allowed visitation until any further decisions are made," Morel replied.

"All right, then," Blanchard said. He walked to cell number 3, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. "Hey," he spoke to the men inside the cell. Joséphine instantly moved closer, desperate for a glimpse of her husband. Renard roughly pulled her back, shooting her a look. "Philippe Javert's got a visitor today, so if he could just walk forward a bit…" Joséphine could hear some shuffling from within the cell, then a set of footsteps that she instantly recognized as those of her husband. "All right, then," Blanchard repeated, jiggling the key in the lock. The door swung open, and Blanchard spoke again. "Javert, come on out; everyone else, stay right where you are." He let out a laugh. "I'm sure you'll all have a lady come for you at some point, no need to get all jealous!"

Philippe Javert emerged from the cell, his hands bound tightly behind his back with handcuffs. He walked forward a bit, eyes searching wildly about the room. As soon as he set them on Joséphine, though, he let out a little sigh. Blanchard locked the cell up again, and then grabbed Philippe by the shoulder. He led him to a little table and chairs, forcing him to sit down. Renard pushed Joséphine closer, until she walked there on her own. She sat down opposite her husband, a smile upon her face. At last, she could see him again!

"You have an hour, and that's it," Renard said. He turned to Blanchard. "I have to go back upstairs and talk to Benoit about something, so keep an eye on things," he said, speaking to Blanchard and Morel. They nodded, and then Renard stalked back up the wooden stairs.

"Oh, Philippe!" Joséphine cried. She reached out to run her hand along his cheek, tears spilling from her eyes. "Why?"

"I…had to, 'séphine," he murmured to her. "For us. For our…child."

"I know, I know," she whispered. "Our child." Then, she let out a gasp, mixed with a small cry.

"Philippe?" she asked, voice laced with worry. "Philippe!" She felt a peculiar sensation coming from her stomach. Suddenly, she felt a sort of…popping feeling.

"Philippe," she moaned. "It's coming. The baby's coming."


End file.
